Self-Healing

My hens last winter, but again, they're so white with new feathers.

Photo by John Ewing.

***

A THREAD OF LIGHT II.

August 11, 2013

If you turn from so much beauty,

You turn from the world’s own shout of joy...

But beauty will win

Even over you.–Sun-Blazoned X.5, 1982

A new vision of my life from here on out,

taking into account, yes, that I will die,

but also that I am hale and well, have

sufficient life force in me to take good

care of the being I am, the writer, farmer,

friend, mother and grandmother, teacher,

and, yes, lover.  I’m not doing too badly

overall.  A little more moody, more

reluctant some days to do what needs doing

to keep my health and vigor.  At twenty-one

I promised myself to live my own life

by my lights, no one else’s, and I have,

I do, I will.  I evolved into a unique being,

a valuable person, sometimes even wise.

She deserves my care–her writings, her

lifestyle, her threads of light between

and among so many people.  There is

no room in my life for despair.  In my 

remaining years I have work to do, love 

to give, balance to provide in a world

spinning out of control.  The earth needs

me.  Its peoples need me even more.

I begin here, now.  It’s terribly simple:

be who I am, stay faithful to my own

deepest wisdom, keep my sense of

humor, do my best.  It’s enough.

It’s everything.

***

Figs in August post-hurricane, a couple of years ago.

***

A THREAD OF LIGHT III.

August 18, 2013

Sitting serene in the

center of a complex web of strands that are

her people and her world; sensitive to events

in the lives of others which touch her; sending

her strength down the strands and re-knitting

where strands break.  Her own body’s juices

weaving always anew against the breaking in

of their despair.  Knitting light.  Aligned with

Creation.  Every breaking apart merely heralds

a new chance to spin again.  If this vision be

well-rooted in real earth, if she plant her feet

in her own Globe Theatre, and work to learn

everything; if she let herself be loved and go

out easily to heal what has been torn and is

in need of mending, she will come into her own.

–Susannah, Teach Me to Love/Grace, Sing to Me, 1985, pp. 29-30.

Thirty years ago, alone then, too, I had the vision

of a lifetime: the four parts I would play in this

world.  Sister to Shakespeare and Master in my

writing–bold goals.  Then lover to a man who

balanced me; and healer, knitting light out of

despair in the souls of those who let me near,

and in my own, too.  Self-heal–the herb I love

and cherish.  When I take my daily walk, I

watch for its prune-shaped leaves, purple

blossoms.  It persists, despite difficult roadside

conditions–drought one year, too much rain

the next, being mowed down.  Yet it spreads.

A few more plants take hold each year.

In my garden, it grows huge, brings in bees,

competes with peppermint, lemon balm,

sage, weeds, and thrives.  Out of my own 

self-healing come words that restore the souls 

of other people.  How do I manage to live 

with all these people inside me?  All these 

roles?  Because it comes down to one: 

is not creating knitting light?  Is not healing 

a creative act?  Does not love create the

other by seeing him framed in light? So I, 

after all, am a light-weaver.  I stand on my 

own firm ground, my own farmland, 

taking in the work that lies ahead, picking up 

pears and grapes that fell early, stripping off 

ripe raspberries, gently squeezing the turning 

figs to assess ripeness; being mistaken for a red

flower in my rain hood by a hummingbird; 

observing four hens on a low peach limb

watching me scatter scratch, too serenely

contemplative to move.  I carry inside

food I grew from plants and trees I weeded,

pruned, fertilized, watered.  The ripe fruit

arrives when you least expect it.

Judy Hogan